


love is love and not fade away

by LilyEllison



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, F/M, Marvel Happily Ever After Harlequin Hoopla 2020, Memory Loss, Post-Defenders AU, Post-Episode: s01e08 The Defenders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22810741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyEllison/pseuds/LilyEllison
Summary: "I'll take you to him," Lantom said. "But...""What is it?" Karen asked, her hands coming up to cover her mouth."He doesn't remember.""The collapse?""He doesn't remember who he is."Written for the Marvel HEA Harlequin Hoopla 2020. Prompt: “Amnesia” Line: “Presents” (any length, size or completion status, but must be rated M or E)
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Karen Page
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65
Collections: MHEA Harlequin Hoopla Prompt Challenge 2020





	love is love and not fade away

**Author's Note:**

> This is a(n) homage to one of my all-time favorite Buffyverse fics, ["If You Drive Me Back"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/127130) by thecarlysutra. Thanks to Quietshade and irelandhoneybee for being my first readers!

The phone number came up as unlisted, but that wasn't unusual in Karen's line of work. There was no reason to be concerned or to even so much as pause before answering. She had no way to know this was a call that would change her life.

"Karen Page," she said as she adjusted the phone on her ear.

"Uh, hello." The man on the other end sounded nervous, and it was difficult to hear him over the noise as she walked along Tenth Avenue. "I was trying to call the office number of Nelson and Murdock."

"Oh," Karen said, the name hitting her like a one-two punch to the gut. When she'd turned off the phone service in the old office, she had the calls forwarded to her cell, in case their clients needed referrals or help with their records. But no one had called that number in weeks. Not since before Matt—

"Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock are no longer taking new clients," she said, sounding more wobbly than she wanted. "I'm sorry."

"No, no," the man said hastily. His voice was rich and warm, despite his nervousness. "I'm looking for friends of Mr. Murdock."

"I'm his—I was the office manager at Nelson and Murdock. Is there something I can help you with?"

"I don't quite know how to say this. My name is Paul Lantom. I'm the pastor of Clinton Church in Hell's Kitchen."

A face with kind eyes loomed up in Karen's mind. "Yes, Father. I remember you." She felt her throat squeeze almost closed. Of course, Matt's priest would be worried about him, after all this time. "I'm so sorry if no one told you, but Matt...well, he went missing several weeks ago."

"He's not missing," Lantom said. "He's here."

* * *

Karen's lungs were burning when she arrived at the front steps of the church. Her feet had started moving even before her mind registered Lantom's words and she'd _run_ every last step of the blocks that separated her from Matt.

Lantom was standing there, waiting for her, his face painted with concern.

"Where is he?" Karen panted, half-doubled-over, rubbing her coat sleeve over her face.

"I'll take you to him," Lantom said. "But..."

"What is it?" Karen asked, straightening, her hands coming up to cover her mouth.

"He doesn't remember."

"The collapse?"

"He doesn't remember who he is."

"Oh, God." She shook her head slowly, her brain going momentarily blank with panic.

"Why isn't he in a hospital?" she asked, when the thoughts came rushing back.

"There were...complications when he arrived."

"Compli—oh. Foggy brought him the suit."

Lantom breathed out, a long sigh of relief. "Thank heavens. You know."

Karen nodded.

"I didn't want to give up his secret. I worried what would happen — prison, or worse. But he needs a hospital now. Specialists to evaluate him. And he needs his friends. He needs you."

Lantom started walking and she followed wordlessly, trembling.

Matt was lying on a bed in the orphanage next to the church. Bandages hugged his wounded body and his eyes were closed. But they fluttered open when she took tentative steps toward him. "Matt?" she said. "It's Karen."

"Karen?" he echoed.

She took his hand, and the touch of his skin made the fear recede on a wave of relief. He was alive. He was alive and that was all that mattered. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask _Do you remember me?_ but she held it back. She wouldn’t be able to bear hearing him say no. Instead, she said, "I'm a friend. We used to work together, you and me and Foggy."

"Foggy," he repeated. "Is that a name? I'm sorry, I don't—"

"It's OK. The important thing is that you're still with us."

She turned to Lantom, not bothering to hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. "He's been here all these weeks?"

Lantom nodded. "He's only been conscious for a short time. The sisters here have been tending his wounds. We didn't realize...the extent."

Karen wondered what Matt was thinking, whether he was scared. She squeezed his hand.

"We'll get through this together," she said. "I'll be right here."

To her surprise, he squeezed back.

* * *

Foggy was her first call, of course. And he arranged somehow for Matt to be admitted to the hospital with a minimum of questions. She heard "Rand" at one point, but she was too focused on Matt to worry about it.

He didn't want to let go of her hand.

She became his guide, helping him understand everything that was happening, the drugs they were giving him, the tests they were running. There were so many tests. They catalogued all of his many injuries, the damage that a falling building had done to his fragile body. But there was nothing they could do for the memory loss.

The trauma, they said.

It will take time, they said.

You should take him home, they said. That might help.

* * *

The weird thing was, Matt remembered everything.

He remembered who was president, and the boundaries of Hell's Kitchen, and how to read braille.

"Hey, Matt, what are the five traditional trespass torts?" Foggy asked one day in the hospital, and Matt rattled them off like nothing.

But when Foggy asked who their torts professor at Columbia was, Matt went blank.

“We went to Columbia?” he said. “That’s a good school.”

“And you graduated top of our class, smarty pants.”

Matt smiled, but it was empty. He reached for Karen’s hand.

* * *

Matt remembered everything. Everything but his life. Everything but _them_.

* * *

The day they took him home was unseasonably warm. He smiled for real at the sunshine on his face, breathing deep to fill his lungs with what qualified to him as fresh air.

It was clear to Karen and Foggy, if not to the doctors, that Matt’s injuries had dampened his senses. But still, the sounds and smells and tastes of the hospital had gotten to him, and they were glad to get him out of there.

While Foggy went out for groceries and Matt's prescriptions, Karen took Matt on a detailed tour of his sun-warmed apartment, a place she knew so well now. He seemed pleased to be back in his own space, even if he didn’t remember it.

The trip tired him, though, and as soon as the sun dipped low in the sky, he was ready for bed. Foggy said goodbye, and his eyes met Karen's. _You sure you're OK?_ they said.

Karen nodded. She didn't know why Matt seemed to prefer her at his side. Foggy was a much older friend, and you'd think that would count for something in his subconscious. But maybe the weight of what Matt couldn’t remember was just too heavy with Foggy. Or maybe it had something to do with the way Karen took Matt’s hand on that first day. He'd latched on then, like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. And she would give anything, absolutely anything, if it would only keep him afloat.

Matt was moving around well enough to get ready for bed on his own, though his hip was clearly still bothering him, and his balance was far off his norm. Karen changed the bedding while he brushed his teeth, and he laughed when he slid on the sheets as he climbed in.

"Are these silk?"

"They're all you have," Karen said, a smile warming her own voice.

"I guess maybe they’re for…company," he said, his voice dropping into that flirty register that always managed to fluster her. Her heart thumped. As an awkward silence stretched, he added, "I didn't really mean that."

"I know," she said, trying to keep her blush from flaring any hotter.

"They do feel nice. Better than the scratchy ones at the hospital. Or worse, at the orphanage."

"That’s good. Um...enjoy." She started to turn toward the door.

"Karen," he said, urgency coloring his tone. "Are you...Can you stay? I—I get disoriented when I wake up, and it helps..."

"Of course I'm not leaving," she said. "You haven't healed enough to be alone yet."

And he let out the breath he’d been holding.

She puttered around his place, putting everything into order, and then she fell asleep on the couch, exhausted enough that not even the billboard’s light could stop her. She woke, hours later, to the sound of her phone alarm, which she'd set so she wouldn't miss giving Matt his pills. He wouldn't take them otherwise, she knew, even if the pain kept him from sleeping. Some things were still the same.

He was awake when she entered his room, and he accepted his dose without complaint for once. And then he spoke, in a quiet, dreamy voice that wove around her and fixed her in place.

"I can hear your heartbeat,” he said. “I think, because I can't see, I can hear more. Better. And your heartbeat is so familiar. I don't _remember_ it, but it’s like...home."

She reached out to caress his face, too overcome to respond in words.

"Would you—?" He huffed out an embarrassed sound. "Would it be too much for me to ask you to sleep in here with me? It's better...when you're close."

"Well, you did say these sheets were for company," she said lightly — trying to keep her heart from spilling over, from drenching him in a flood of pent-up emotion — and he chuckled as she climbed in next to him.

He wasn't the only one who slept better when they were close.

* * *

Karen didn't want to overwhelm him, so mostly she waited for Matt to ask.

"Your dad was a boxer. He...died a long time ago."

"What about my mom?"

"I don't know,” Karen said. "Foggy might. Or Sister Maggie at the orphanage."

Matt smiled. "At least there's something about me we _both_ don't know."

And Karen's heart squeezed. How horrible, to have to rely on other people for every detail. To feel like everyone around you knew you better than you knew yourself.

* * *

Foggy didn’t want to tell Matt about Daredevil.

"It's too dangerous. Even without his memories, he's still Matt. What if he decides he needs to get back out there? He could end up dead for real this time."

Karen hesitated, biting her lip.

"Look, I'm not saying we never tell him. I just think we should wait."

"OK," she said, nodding. "OK."

* * *

Matt wasn’t a great patient. But they pleasantly bickered themselves into a routine anyway — with negotiations over pills and physical therapy exercises and _dammit, Matt, you have to eat_ taking up predictable chunks of the day. Foggy stopped by often, and Father Lantom and Sister Maggie checked up on Matt, too, just as they had in the hospital.

On one of her visits, Sister Maggie left Matt a rosary, and Matt's evening prayers quickly became Karen's favorite part of the day. _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..._ The rise and fall of his voice was almost hypnotic, and the look of peace on his face before they went to bed was a balm for the day's accumulation of stress.

But as soon as they had learned the rhythm of their days, things changed again.

Karen had to go back to work. Ellison had given her a two-week leave, in exchange for the "inevitable exclusive on the amnesiac lawyer." Karen knew her boss cared about her, but she thought he was only half-kidding. There wouldn't be any exclusive, but boy would Ellison love to sink his teeth into one.

Once Matt found out that Karen would be returning to the newsroom, he decided that he wanted to go back to work, too. It was too soon for him to take on his own cases, but Foggy had plenty that he needed help with. Matt dove into the work with both hands, glad for a distraction and anxious to find out what he could do.

But he still greeted Karen with an almost puppy-like enthusiasm when she arrived after her busy days at the Bulletin. Though she and Foggy both checked in often, she worried about how lonely he got in his hours alone.

In the evenings, she usually read to him — he said it was good for him, that listening to her voice might help him remember.

One day, when Foggy was over for dinner, he pulled a volume out of his briefcase before leaving. He handed it to Karen with a smile. "There's a passage marked. Try reading it and see what happens."

So when Matt was snug on the couch next to her, she began, feeling out the words as they built to an impassioned crescendo: "In the chilled climate in which we live, we must go against the prevailing winds. We must dissent from the indifference. We must dissent from the apathy. We must dissent from the fear, the hatred, and the mistrust."

Karen could feel the excitement rising in Matt as she spoke, and he stood up and began to move around the room before she could finish.

"Thurgood Marshall," he said, when she was done. "I think—I _know_ that was important to me. Before."

His smile was so endearing that she had to get up and hug him. They clung together in a way that felt different, that felt new. Or, maybe, old.

And then—and then he _kissed_ her.

One sweet kiss, and then he pulled away. "I'm sorry," he started, but he stopped himself. "That's a lie. I'm not sorry. I want to kiss you again."

And she wanted that, too, she couldn’t deny it, and she was pressing her mouth to his.

He kissed the same. His kisses were exactly the same, and her eyes watered with a mixture of fierce longing and hot joy.

"I have to ask you something," he murmured, putting his forehead against hers. "Before...what happened. Were we—did you...love me?"

Karen was breathless. How could she explain to him what they had been to each other? How could anyone understand without the memories of it? She'd been so angry with him for so long, and now she couldn't even remember what that anger felt like, even though not a single bit of it had ever been resolved. Amnesia was not a get-out-of-jail free card, and yet—she had almost lost him, and that had made everything so clear.

"It was kind of a mess between us, when it happened," she said after a long moment. "We both made mistakes. But...yes. I loved you, before. And I—"

But his lips were capturing hers, and she let him taste the words instead.

* * *

There had always been something missing with Matt, Karen thought. And that was still true, but in a different way.

In the time before Midland Circle, he was rarely as fully present as he was now. He still got preoccupied sometimes, brooding over his missing past. But. He smiled more often and he listened more deeply and Karen felt a pang of guilt on more than one occasion when she thought of how much more whole he seemed this way.

Would he fragment again if they told him everything? Must he always be a man divided against himself?

It didn't take long, though, before the cracks started appearing on their own.

As the swelling in his head went down, Matt's senses improved, stretching out farther into the city around them. And every day, a little bit more of the weight of the world settled itself on his shoulders.

* * *

"I need to tell you something," he said one night when she got home from work — she thought of it as home now; she was considering letting go of her own barely-used apartment. "It's going to sound crazy."

So many things flashed through her mind — had he remembered something? Had he done something? But she managed to be calm. "OK."

"I...I don't think I'm normal."

"What do you mean?"

"I told you I could hear your heartbeat. But it’s more than that now. I can hear things far away. Really far. I could tell you what all our neighbors are watching on TV right now, or what they're squabbling about at dinner. And I can taste the traces of the latte you had this afternoon. Skim milk, vanilla syrup. And—"

"You can tell from people’s heartbeats when they’re not telling the truth. And when you were lying awake last night in bed, you were probably listening to the robbery at the bodega two blocks over that we ran a story about today."

His mouth dropped open. She led him to the couch so they could sit. She kept holding his hand.

"When you were in that accident as a kid, when you saved that man and lost your sight, it enhanced your other senses. We didn't tell you about this because — honestly, we weren't sure how much of it you would get back, Matt, and we didn't want you to be confused or concerned."

"So everyone knows this about me?"

"No. It’s not something you usually share with people. I know, and Foggy, too. But I'm not sure anyone else knows the extent of what you can do."

“I thought about calling the police last night, but I didn’t think they’d believe me.”

“You can call in anonymous tips,” she suggested.

“Did I used to do that?”

“I think so,” she said carefully. “Sometimes.”

"There's so much pain. Out there."

"I know," she said, squeezing his hand. "I know."

* * *

The cracks kept appearing, more and more of them.

The healthier Matt got, the angrier he got at his inability to remember. And he was comfortable now with her, enough to let her see it.

He needed an outlet, a vent for all the steam that was building inside him.

Sister Maggie had suggested a place to Karen earlier — somewhere to take Matt that might help trigger his memory. She’d written the name and address on a scrap of paper in her clear hand: Fogwell’s Gym.

It seemed like the perfect place for him now, even if it brought back nothing of his childhood.

They went for the first time on a blustery Saturday, shoulders pressing forward into a cold wind. Inside, it was warm, and it smelled like old sweat and leather. They took off their coats.

“Sister Maggie said your dad used to train here. They called him Battlin’ Jack Murdock. There’s tons of memorabilia on the walls.”

Matt wet his lips, his face taking on that empty look he got when he knew someone was hoping he’d remember.

“But that’s not why we’re here,” Karen said briskly, and he relaxed. She found hand wraps and gave one to him. “Do you know how to put these on?”

And he did, a tiny smile playing at his lips as the muscle memory returned.

“You can fight, Matt. Give it a try.”

He took an experimental swing at the hanging bag closest to him and, to his surprise if not to hers, it connected. A light seemed to come on inside him, and he took another swing. And another. And another, until he had tried out a flurry of different punches and combinations.

He turned to her then, sweat beaded up on his brow, a wild smile stretching his cheeks. He kissed her in a surge of delight, and then he turned around and kept on punching.

* * *

It helped.

Long sessions of sweating relieved some of his tension, and it was clear that he enjoyed it.

The next time Sister Maggie came to the apartment to check on him, murmuring her approval at his progress, she gave Karen the name and number of a sparring partner who could be trusted to keep quiet.

And, oh, what a beautiful thing it was to watch Matt fight. He was breathtaking. He was so _alive_.

Yes, Fogwell’s was a good place for Matt, but Karen wondered how long it would take before he wanted to intervene in the troubles he heard at night. When the anonymous phone calls would no longer be enough.

She had tiptoed closer to the issue, reading him Bulletin stories about Jessica Jones and vigilante justice in New York. There were sometimes references to Daredevil, and Matt knew there was once a masked man who stalked the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, striking fear into the hearts of criminals.

But what he thought about that, he didn’t say.

* * *

Everything with Matt felt more dangerous now, and that extended even to sleeping.

Karen had tried to keep things slow between them. "Bed is for rest," she'd told him sternly. "You still need to heal."

But now he pulled her close and kissed her as they curled up under the covers. The boxing had put him back in his body so completely, and he was rejoicing in the physical. She could feel the change — his lips surer and his hands bolder, and she was melting, melting, melting. Just like with fighting and the law, his skill had not suffered from his loss of memory.

"Karen…” he said, his breath coming fast, “have we ever..?"

"No. Though not for lack of trying on my part," she said, smiling.

"What?" he said, surprised. "You didn’t tell me I was stupid."

She laughed but her stomach twisted. "You don’t know everything about me, Matt."

"I don’t know anything about me, Karen,” he said, and she touched his cheek, his lips, at the solemnity of his voice. "But I know you save me every day."

And he kissed her like he meant it, over and over again.

His hand slid under the hem of her t-shirt, splayed out warm over the curve of her waist, and everything inside her went liquid with desire. But she pulled her mouth away from his, reluctantly.

"Maybe we should—"

"How I feel about you... it's so strong. Part of me has to remember you."

"Don't you want to wait until all of you does?"

"But what if it doesn't come back?" Pain filled every line of his face. "Will you still want me if I never..."

And she couldn’t stop herself from crushing her mouth to his, kissing him to say, _Yes. Yes, I will_ always _want you._

_I will. And I did. And I do._

* * *

There was still so much left unsaid, so many garbled words and black-outs in the text, but this was true: She loved him — on a level that had altered her soul, or whatever it was that made up the core of her. He had shaken her very Karenness in a way that made her angry and ecstatic and hesitant and reckless and distressed and so very content.

And even without his memories, the essential Matthew somehow remained.

This wasn't how she imagined it — except, wasn't it? When she'd first thought it might happen, when she'd invited him up on their date, she'd known there was a heavy weight of secrets carried between them, one she hoped they could put down for a night, and be _free_ together. She'd thought then, beyond the bright red haze of her lust for him, that if they could find intimacy and acceptance in one way, it would open the door to others.

And maybe—maybe it still could.

* * *

They couldn't stop touching each other, once they'd started.

Matt's hands were slow and seeking, spreading tender fire with every caress. She offered it all up to him, every part of herself, wanting to be baptized in the flame of his devotion. He was almost unbearably thorough, exploring her from forehead to feet, and then flipping her to start again — his lips lavishing the skin between her shoulder blades, his teeth biting gently into the swell of her ass, his kisses teasing the backs of her knees.

Karen's hands were greedier. She didn't have his discipline. She wanted to touch him everywhere at once, to claim him completely, his shoulders and arms and chest and the lean muscles of his stomach. She beckoned him between her thighs, guiding him in, as deep as she could get him.

He fit inside her like he was made to be there, and each slick slide of their bodies together convinced her that he was. He was. She opened up for him, she bloomed, she was ripe for the plucking, and he took her with him, up up up, so high that the light dazzled her.

So high that nothing else could touch her.

* * *

Afterwards, he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"Karen," he said. "Karen."

"What is it?" She was panicking. He had been healing so well — "Are you hurt?"

He shook his head, "I'm OK."

And she stroked his hair until he calmed, until he said, "That was—incredible."

She grinned, the tension leaving her as quickly as it had arrived. "It was."

"I remember sex. The physical part. But nothing—nothing that felt like that." He smiled self-consciously. "I guess it was a little overwhelming."

He fell asleep quickly that night, wrapped up in her arms, his head close to her heart.

But she lay awake for a very long time, too overwhelmed herself to sleep.

* * *

The thing that Karen had been angriest about was never the lies. Well, it was the lies, but not because he told lies, because he didn't trust her with the truth.

Him not trusting her, that was the thing.

Now she worried that he trusted her too much. He trusted her completely.

And maybe she didn’t deserve it. (Maybe she’d never deserved it.) Maybe she should have sat him down the moment they left the hospital and told him everything.

What she kept thinking about was the night when he pulled that damn helmet out of the bag. The one that was now buried under an unfathomable volume of rubble, for future archeologists to discover and develop wild theories about.

That night, she had asked Matt who else knew his secret, and he'd told her. But then he added, "Everyone else just...found out, by accident or circumstance. You're the only person I've ever _chosen_ to share this with."

What he meant was — I trust you.

What she wondered now was — how much did she trust him?

* * *

Ellison had been giving her mostly light stuff, stories she would have cringed at before, but that she accepted now because they weren't all-consuming. They got her home to Matt faster.

But this one was different. The father of a reality TV show star had been kidnapped and killed. Kazemi was his name. And when Karen poked she found a hornet's nest, with Wilson Fisk at its center. The FBI was moving him from prison into the Presidential Hotel and Karen's vision went white with fury.

She was late getting home that night. Matt was sitting quietly on the couch, an open book in his lap, but his fingers unmoving on the pages. He was listening intently to the radio newscast. Of course, it was full of Fisk.

As her shoes clicked closer, Matt shook himself, putting the book aside and standing slowly to greet her with a smile. She kissed him, quick and light, and then she went into the bedroom. She heard him turn off the radio, and she returned before he could sit back down.

"There's something that I need you to know," she said, crossing the room toward him.

He turned his face to her expectantly, his head tilting and his forehead wrinkling slightly in concern. She took his hand and put a piece of black fabric into it. A mask. She closed his fingers around it.

"You're Daredevil," she said.


End file.
